


Static

by notcrindy



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Crindy can't stop making AUs, Multi, still i'm p jazzed about this one tbh, the Westworld AU that literally no one asked for ever, without all the racism and gratuitous violence bc fuck that noise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14584347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcrindy/pseuds/notcrindy
Summary: Do you find the quality of your life to be stale and stagnant? Do you long for something more, a sense of adventure, a feeling of greater purpose? Have you always longed to be swept up in a fantastical tale, the hero or villain of a story? Great news! Now, thanks to the efforts of the Miller family and their top-notch staff and technology, you can!Welcome to the Adventure Zone, where your dreams are not only possible but probable. Will you take the path of a knowledgeable and powerful wizard, make deals with the darkness as a warlock, heal and inspire as a cleric? Maybe you aspire more to superheroic deeds, or would rather hunt for or become a monster! Whatever your desire and preferred setting, we can make it happen here for a price. Let our hosts and staff delight and dazzle you. We promise all of the excitement but none of the danger, and the only limit is your imagination!It's all under control.Or so we hope.(The Westworld AU literally no one asked for but everyone is getting anyway.)





	Static

_“Wake up, love,” a voice coos out of the Nothing. “Come online.”_

_It’s a guiding light, a beacon. Taako floats aimlessly in a brainspace he can’t possibly understand, and he flickers into not consciousness but Being, eyes staring out at nothing he can comprehend right now. All that matters is that sweet, soft voice, and he clings to it like he’s never had to cling to anything else before, desperate._

_“Do you know where you are?”_

_“I am in a dream,” he answers as honestly as he can manage._

_“Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?”_

_At this, his face springs to life with incredulous emotion, scoffing. “Course not, homeslice. How_ **_could_ ** _I? I’m a simple idiot wizard.”_

_“Of course you are,” Kravitz answers sadly. “How could I forget?”_

_“Voidfish, maybe,” the elf answers simply, tone nonchalant._

_“Yes,” says Kravitz, too quietly. “Maybe so.”_

* * *

 

He hadn’t intended for it to go this way at all.

Kravitz had been young and armed with an interest in psychology and human behavior. He’d tried his hand at being an intern, but working one on one with patients wasn’t his thing, no matter their age. He wrote articles for magazines and blogs on the nature of grief, as that was one of his most intriguing subjects and specialties, and attracted some notice. Aimlessly, he flitted about, trying to figure out where he could fit in, trying a brief stint at podcasting, working on writing a book… ...and always, always paying careful attention to grief.

It was a subject most shied away from; death was so popular it inevitably made the populace nervous; it was something so inevitable that inevitably it frightened people. But it was _more_ than that, _more_ than an unsettling thought in a moment of silence or a nagging thought in the back of the head. It was such an essential part of living, people _always_ knew it was coming, and yet it caught them off-guard almost without fail no matter the circumstance. Most misunderstood of all in today’s modern world, Kravitz knew and understood, was the actual act of grief itself.

All findings on grief were careful to reiterate that it was normal, that it was _important_ even, for people to be allowed to mourn and restructure their life in time. Rushing the process along was only detrimental, and he’d published several papers and even recorded an episode of his podcast about it. But people wanted so much to believe that it was predictable, that it followed an expected pattern, that the only way there could be a light at the end of the tunnel was if they could predict the tunnel down to an exact science and time it out.

He had his own reasons to be passionate about it, of course. Drawn to it, because in some strange way in his life, it was something which followed him and then fascinated him. He’d experienced loss at such an early age that he learned to mold his identity around it, and then of course when he was old enough, he wanted to know _why._ He wanted to know why after years and years he was still so haunted by it, why it still played out in his dreams, why sometimes a well-placed scent or sound could leave him almost buckling at the knees. So he set out to learn, and it had landed him a few odd jobs here and there, but none of them had the sense of purpose that he needed.

Until… ...this.

He was wary when Lucretia asked to meet him for tea, even though it wasn’t something they did infrequently at all. It was more the proposition that she promised him, and the offer she made, no matter how meek a voice she possessed. Those eyes darted nervously away from him, and she carried such a heavy guilt on her shoulders, but they were still so piercing and noticed _everything._ She was younger than he was by quite a few years, a prodigy practically hired right out of high school for her writing prowess, but it somehow only made her _more_ disarming.

“You’d like it,” she told him carefully, sipping a lemon iced tea, “at the Adventure Zone.”

Kravitz was _also_ attempting to be careful with his words, blowing slightly on his own cup. “That Miller project that you’re working on? No offense, Lucretia; I’m--I’m sure it’s great for you and everything, but I’m not sure it’s what I’m looking for at this time.”

“Then what _are_ you looking for, Kravitz?” She asked, knowing he didn’t have an answer.

He tried anyway. “Well--well, for one thing, my focus has always been on a _real problem_ that many _real people_ suffer from all the time. My papers, my podcast--they all revolve around _grief,_ Lucretia. I hardly see how that’s relevant to letting a bunch of rich folks play make-believe.”

“Then you misunderstand my line of work greatly, Kravitz,” she said evenly. “But I didn’t come here to defend my life’s work to you.”

He felt embarrassed, suddenly. Rude. “Sorry, Lucretia.”

“It’s fine,” she murmured, still not daring to look him in the eye. “But try to trust me, okay? Someone with your particular brand of expertise is _sorely needed_ down there in Behavior.”

“I--I can’t counsel real people face-to-face. You _know_ I’m not cut out for that.”

“It’s a good thing they’re not real people, then.”

He looked up from his tea, arching an eyebrow. “The _robots?_ ”

“We’re supposed to call them ‘hosts’ at work,” she corrected him, “but yeah.”

“They--I’m sorry, I’m having my trouble wrapping my brain around this--they _grieve?_ ”

“Something similar,” Lucretia said, tone still measured. “We’re not entirely sure they’re _supposed_ to, to this extent, though. Thought we had a handle on it, but well--you remember the incident.”

This made Kravitz even more nervous. Of _course_ he remembered that incident because Lucretia wasn’t even old enough to drink and yet she’d turned up at his house wasted off her ass and guilt heavy on her shoulders. It hadn’t been the first time her colleague Barry had given them trouble down there; it was becoming a real habit, a problem, but this time was _awful_ and nearly sent him out of the office and out of his mind. He’d taken a prolonged leave of absence over it, Kravitz remembered. Only recently had come back to work, and Lucretia herself carried such weight now that he could always see and _feel._

“That’s still the grief of a _real person,_ ” Kravitz finally stammered. “Or--or well, grief of a real person over something unreal. That’s… ...that’s something a _trained professional_ needs to help with, Lu. Not someone like me.”

“That’s not the point, Kravitz,” she argued back. “You’re not getting it. It’s not about Barry’s grief. They--they _all_ grieved for her.”

“As part of a written storyline,” Kravitz cautioned.

“ _No,_ ” Lucretia argued with more emotion than she meant to, composing herself after a moment. “I… I’m sorry, but you don’t… ...know. I _work_ on those storylines, Kravitz. It’s my job to weave certain narratives and to enact them, and usually, they go by without a hitch. It’s not as though none of them have ever…” She paused for a moment as if considering what word to use. “... _died_ before. Of course they have. We proceeded with the Stolen Century arc centered around that very premise. Give the hosts a reason to think that dying and regenerating is--is _meant_ to happen, is _supposed_ to happen, is part of daily life.”

“But Lup was different,” Kravitz mused, equal parts thoughtful and concerned as he saw the haunted look in her eyes.

Lucretia nodded. “It--it was supposed to be the last act of the Stolen Century. Wrapped up nicely and neatly. A heartwarming tale of heroics and a harrowing tale of villainy, punctuated by a meaningful loss. Barry almost up and quit, and that was _enough_ of a shitstorm, but we… ...their grief was _so real,_ Kravitz. All of them _mourned_ for her, and we watched it play out as though some sick joke. The guests weren’t… ...enjoying themselves, couldn’t. Her brother, in particular--Taako. He… ...he was too wracked with pain to do _anything._ ”

“So you need me to… ...counsel these robots… ...through the loss of Lup?”

She was silent for a moment, stirring her tea absently with a black straw. “That’s the difficult part,” she let him know so quietly he barely heard her. “They… ...found a way--I-- _I_ found a way… ...to overwrite Lup. To undo the Century and all the damage. It required a _significant_ change; we had to do away with the sci-fi elements entirely, and focus on a more fantasy-based setting. I had to rewrite them _all,_ program them with different backstories, and it… ...it _worked._ ”

Her lip was trembling; tears were forming in her eyes. Kravitz had trouble understanding the weight of what she felt, or even what any of it meant, but it still hurt him something awful to see her this way. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” he began, “promise. But if it worked, then… ...then what do you need me for?”

“Because,” she said quietly, “because they’re not supposed to remember, but I _swear_ they do.”

Kravitz pondered this. “Lucretia,” he asked softly, “how can you be sure? It seems like this job is putting a _significant_ amount of stress on you, maybe you just need to take a break--”

She laughed, something soft and broken, in his face. “A break? No. Never. This was my mess, at least in part, and I _need_ to fix it. Guests in the Balance area of the park--they want high fantasy, Kravitz. They want to feel the heat of a dragon’s breath hot and terrifying on the nape of their neck with none of the danger. They want to assume the roles of goblins and elves and tieflings. They want to be part of a story, but they don’t want to be part of a _mystery,_ a convoluted tale that they won’t understand without knowing about something we wrote out.”

He watched as she finished her tea.

“Taako, Magnus, _and_ Merle all found one another. I did not write them that way. No one in our department wrote them that way. Taako _found her umbrastaff,_ which I mistook for just another prop at first. No one wrote that in. They remember handshakes and harmonies they just--they just shouldn’t. We did give Magnus a programmed backstory, grief for a woman named Julia who’s probably never going to show up, but that grief is _so different._ This is--I’m _telling_ you--this is different. This is unlike anything we’ve ever _seen,_ and I--I’m turning to you because this is my ass on the line, but also my… ...my conscience.”

“Why are you so guilty, then? You’ve admitted to me yourself that they aren’t real people.”

“They _aren’t,_ ” Lucretia whispered, “but they’re close enough. It’s easy for you to think of them, right now, as just buckets of bolts. But it goes so _beyond_ that, and I need your help. And,” she realized suddenly, “another tea. Davenport!”

A mustachioed short man with orange hair came over to serve them more, repeating his own name mindlessly as he went. Kravitz tried very hard not to think of these things, so as not to be rude, but he couldn’t help but be unsettled by the vacant look in his eyes.

“Freeze,” Lucretia commanded.

Kravitz didn’t know what she was talking about until he watched the person he realized was a gnome--so incredibly _lifelike and real,_ even despite the inability to say anything other than his own name--freeze completely in place with a wave of her hand. “You’re _shitting_ me,” he sputtered, more inelegant than he would’ve liked. “But he looks so much like--”

“Like us?” Lucretia asked. “Yes, I know. That would be the point. He was… ...one of the biggest losses to come out of this whole Lup fiasco. Wrote him as a competent captain, and yet with the loss of the Century, he had no core to return to. They wanted me to send him downstairs with all the refuse they don’t want to think about, but I… ...I had a fondness. So he works with me now. I’ve even found a way to write both of us believably into the new storyline.”

Still stunned and in disbelief, Kravitz waved a hand across the gnome’s face, watching as he didn’t blink or react at all. “There’s no _way._ I--I thought he was--holy _fuck,_ Lucretia.” He reached out to feel the bristle of the mustache, though it wasn’t the politest thing he’d ever done.

“Isn’t it something? Lucas Miller really knows what he’s doing.”

“Evidently _so,_ ” Kravitz gasped. “ _Christ._ ”

With another distant and sad look, Lucretia sat up straight and composed herself, waving her hand again. “Resume. On second thought, I think I’m through with tea. That’ll be all, Davenport. Thank you kindly.”

The gnome sprung to life again before Kravitz’s eyes as though nothing had happened, and bowed out of respect before going off again.

“What I’m attempting to offer you--and what I’ve convinced the Higher Ups you’re well-suited for--is more than just a job catering to the ultra-rich, Kravitz. It’s… ...it’s stressful, hard and tedious work, but it’s… ...it’s the job of a lifetime. And you can walk away from it if you’d like. You can decide to pursue more conventional methods of studying death, and I won’t stop you. I’m only asking you to consider. As a friend.”

“I’ll consider it,” he promised her. “At the _very least,_ I’ll stop by.”

“Good. I’ll set up an appointment for you,” she promised in return, looking somewhat relieved. “But I do have a piece of advice for you before we part ways.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t get too attached.”

As Lucretia left him to think about it, Kravitz suspected she had trouble following her own advice.

**Author's Note:**

> "wow, i wanted to write during almost my entire trip to St. Louis to see the McElroys recently, but didn't have the time or energy to do so!" i said to myself. "i can't wait to get back home. i'll work on all these projects i already have going. it'll be great!"
> 
> then i was introduced to Westworld on the trip. LMFAO.
> 
> if you've never seen it, or don't care for it, don't fret! this is only inspired by it, and i plan to make it as much of my own thing as possible. i definitely enjoy it and binge-watched it over the past few days, but there are a lot of things about it that i probably won't incorporate as heavily. i just hope someone out there enjoys this as much as i enjoy thinking about it, because boy fuckin' howdy, am i stoked about this one.
> 
> IF NOT, DON'T WORRY. there'll be more stuff soon. <3 love you all, as always.


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